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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25621144">don't call me kid, don't call me baby</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzzbucket/pseuds/fuzzbucket'>fuzzbucket</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Knives Out (2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Car Sex, F/M, Mature-ish, Missing Scene, but he's marta's ally until he isn't, marta has needs too, ransom drysdale is a racist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:01:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,496</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25621144</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzzbucket/pseuds/fuzzbucket</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>We leave Marta and Ransom at the diner.</p><p>We see them again the following morning.</p><p>What happened in between?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Marta Cabrera/Ransom Drysdale</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>115</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>don't call me kid, don't call me baby</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Knives Out blew my damn mind. Thanks to the movie and some of the fics here, I am now wholly owned by Marta and Ransom. </p><p>How did Marta know where Ransom lived? How did she get her car back? Didn't they seem kind of cozy before, you know, he tried to kill her? I can't chalk it up one hundred percent to Marta's innate goodness or simple text messages. So, I choose to believe they had a quick and torrid affair in the evening hours.</p><p>Title shamelessly stolen from Taylor Swift's "illicit affairs."</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When they walked out of the restaurant, she was surprised at how reassured she felt.</p><p>She had someone on her side. </p><p>So what if it was Ransom, the world’s biggest asshole?</p><p>So what if he had never even once given her the time of day before?</p><p>And yes, his motives were mercenary, but they were predictable. Marta favored predictable. Something she could expect and rely on. Who would ever have thought she could rely on Ransom?</p><p>He unlocked his car and opened the door for Marta, an unexpectedly chivalrous gesture. She slid in, smelling expensive leather, cologne, and the faintest whiff of whiskey. (Did he drink and drive? <i>Probably</i>, she thought, and put it out of her head.) “Are you good to drive?” she wondered aloud as he glided into the seat next to her, thinking of the empty bottles lined up like soldiers on the table when they left. She’d had one, he’d had the rest.</p><p>He looked at her, blue eyes piercing the dark. “You’re kidding me, right?” He turned the key in the ignition, and the car rumbled to life. It reminded her.</p><p>“I need my car back. I need to get home.”</p><p>Ransom <i>hmmmm</i>ed, a low rumble. “Will it start again?”</p><p>She felt ashamed, her old, only vaguely reliable jalopy in stark contrast to Ransom’s German-engineered work of art. “It should. It just needs a jump.”</p><p>He thought for a minute. “Well. We can’t go back now, they’re all still there and it’s still on the early side. If we kill a few hours, I can go back with you and help you jump it.”</p><p>Marta was growing accustomed to surprise, but Ransom offering to help her – again – rocked her. “Are you sure?”</p><p>“I mean, unless you just want me to take you home and you can just take an Uber there and pick it up tomorrow.”</p><p>She shook her head vigorously. “No. I need my car.”</p><p>“Lot of good it did you today.” He shifted the car into gear, peeling out of the restaurant with barely a look at oncoming traffic.</p><p>“Where are we going?”</p><p>“My house.”</p><p>Marta shook her head. “No. Won’t they look for us there?”</p><p>Ransom shook his head, shifting gears. “They’d look for me there, but not you, and no one is looking for me right now.”</p><p>“Except for Blanc.”</p><p>Ransom looked at her sharply. “You mean Detective Leghorn? I don’t much care.” He shifted again, the speedometer creeping upward, and she felt like she had to be quiet now. He flicked on some music – something vaguely electronic and slow – and she willed herself to relax. </p><p>The drive to Ransom’s house took about twenty minutes, winding through woods and over hills. It was surprisingly close to Harlan’s, and Marta found herself wondering why he so seldom came to visit over the past few years when his house was right there.</p><p>It was a midcentury mondernist paradise, stark white and lit up against the night. She felt herself begin to gawk, then schooled her face into a neutral position. She swung open her car door, following Ransom into the house.</p><p>When he showed her in the door, she instinctually went to take off her shoes. “Don’t do that on my account,” he muttered. “I don’t give a fuck.” She frowned in his direction, following him into the kitchen. He rustled through cabinets, and she took in her surroundings; it was an almost frustratingly Spartan place to live, with few indicators of personality or even life. Not even a discarded magazine to show what he might read for fun.</p><p>“Drink.” It wasn’t a question, and he slid a stemless glass of white wine across the counter.</p><p>“I shouldn’t. I have to drive later.”</p><p>He rolled his eyes. “Later. You don’t have to do it right now.” He poured his own hefty glass and took a swig. “I took a gamble and assumed you’d prefer white wine.”</p><p>In reality, she preferred a Big Gulp of Diet Coke, but he didn’t need to know that. She let the acidic liquid roll over her tongue and back into her throat, finding the sting soothing, under the circumstances.</p><p>“You can take your coat off, you know. I heat this place, unlike Harlan.” She recognized he was right; it felt warm, and she shrugged off her coat and took a seat at one of the tall seats around the counter. </p><p>They faced off across the counter – him standing, her sitting. He looked off into the middle distance, and Marta followed his gaze to see him staring out the windows into the woods.</p><p>“Something out there?” she asked, and he turned toward her, eyes on fire.</p><p>“Werewolves, probably.” He drained his glass and poured himself another. “Why are you such a slow drinker?”</p><p>“I’m not looking to get drunk, Ransom.” How like Harlan he was. <i>Why can’t I beat you at this game?</i> That was only a week ago. She felt uneasy, suddenly. She was here, in the woods, with Ransom. Any minute, she expected the police to roll up and arrest her. She set down her glass authoritatively.</p><p>He smirked. “If I were wanted for murder and my car broke down, I would be drinking.”</p><p>“I have more of a sense of self-preservation than that.” She had to bite back the rest of the sentence – <i>the biggest threat to me here is you, anyway</i>. “Besides, you said yourself it’ll all blow over in a few days.”</p><p>Ransom nodded. “Yep. Then we’ll both have our cash and we can do whatever the hell we want.”</p><p>She rolled her eyes. “You always do what you want.”</p><p>“You’ve got a mouth on you.” He took a deep swig. “And not always.” His eyes were darker, somehow. “You probably want to be nicer to me.”</p><p>She swallowed and grabbed for her glass of wine, taking a long drink. </p><p>In an instant, he relaxed. “So, what are you going to do with the money?”</p><p>Marta honestly hadn’t thought about it, and verbalized the thought. “I haven’t considered it. I just found out.”</p><p>“Surely you have dreams about winning the lottery, right?” His smirk was back.</p><p>Marta winced at the barely-veiled racism in his comment. “Honestly? I’d buy a new car, get my mom citizenship, send my sister to school, and donate most of the rest of it.”</p><p>He rolled his eyes at that. “For fuck’s sake, Marta. You’re getting sixty million in cash, less what you give me. Not even considering the assets, that’s a fuckload of money.”</p><p>She considered that for a moment. “Yeah. But, like, what would I even do with it, for myself?”</p><p>“Buy a yacht.”</p><p>She burst out laughing at that. Ransom’s face stayed serious.</p><p>“Are you kidding?”</p><p>He cracked a smile. “Yes. Even with all that fuck-you money, you’d never buy a yacht.”</p><p>She smiled, feeling on a slightly more even keel, and the wine was going straight to her head. Her cheeks flushed pink. “Maybe I’ll buy a boat, name it Thrombey, and blow it up.”</p><p>Ransom laughed at that, not his maniacal laugh from the will reading, but an open laugh that made her feel warmer. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”</p><p>She flushed more, feeling his approval. “I don’t know. Something just for me is hard to think of.”</p><p>He rolled his eyes again. “All right, Saint Cabrera. There’s gotta be <b>something</b> you want. Clothes? Shoes? A big-screen TV?”</p><p>She closed her eyes, thinking deeply. “A nice coat.”</p><p>He guffawed. “Sixty million and you want a <i>coat?</i>”</p><p>She felt rage clawing at the corner of her belly; Ransom had never been cold for even a moment in his life. All she could think about was her mother’s apartment and the first few winters in Boston, her fingertips stiff and cold and the tip of her nose painful.</p><p>She fixed a glare on him. “Yes. A warm, elegant coat. It’s cold here.”</p><p>He nodded. “Sure. And what are you doing with the other fifty nine million, nine hundred and ninety nine thousand dollars?”</p><p>She sighed. This game wasn’t fun anymore. She glanced down at her watch – they’d only been here twenty minutes.</p><p>“Fine, Ransom. I’d buy a Rolls Royce, a pair of Louboutins, and a private jet.”</p><p>He studied her. “Sorry. Most people would lose their minds over this kind of money.”</p><p>At that, she exploded. “You and Harlan are the same. Can’t conceive of anything different than the life you live. He couldn’t believe I could beat him at Go. You can’t believe my every waking moment isn’t devoted to making more money. People live different lives, Ransom.”</p><p>He looked as taken aback as he ever could. </p><p>“But since you want to discuss this so badly, what are you doing with <i>your</i> cut?”</p><p>He looked chastened. “I mean… my lifestyle is expensive. I’m not buying anything big.”</p><p>It was Marta’s turn to roll her eyes. “Bullshit, Ransom.”</p><p>He braced his hands on the counter in front of him, his arms spreading wide across it. She was struck, once again, by his largeness; how he managed to take up all the space available, even in this cavernous house. The Thrombeys always made her feel small; with Ransom, she <i>was</i> small.</p><p>“Seriously?” She nodded. He looked skyward for a moment. “I’d buy the house off you.”</p><p>She knitted her eyebrows. “…What?”</p><p>“Well, you know, assuming it’s for sale.” He gave her a wolfish smile with that, and she was momentarily charmed by Ransom, unsure about something.</p><p>“I’ll think on it.” And with that, he folded his arms back into himself.</p><p>She missed having him lean toward her; like they had a secret to share.</p><p>Well, they <i>did</i> have a secret to share, she supposed.</p><p>“Why would you want the house?”</p><p>“Same reason I’m helping you. Because fuck my family. Also, it’s bigger than this one.”</p><p>She wasn’t surprised at his absolute lack of nostalgia or sentimentality about the house; it was a tangible thing that he could keep away from his family. A form of punishment. She understood, even if she couldn’t relate.</p><p>She sipped at her wine, looking intently at Ransom. He broke eye contact first, turning around to grab his phone. Suddenly, quiet music drifted over the speakers.</p><p>“I hate how quiet it gets,” he offered, by way of explanation. Marta didn’t mind; it was better than filling the silence with talk of money and houses and families.</p><p>“Can I charge my phone?” she asked, and Ransom walked around the counter to stand next to her.</p><p>“Yeah, where is it?” She pulled her phone out of her pocket and he laughed at her. “First things first, you need a new phone. What the fuck makes you think I have a charger for this?”</p><p>“I do,” she mumbled quietly, reaching deeper into her pocket and pulling out the cord. </p><p>“You’re a millionaire with a busted phone and a dead car, Marta.” He was towering over her now, in her personal space. She looked up at him and expected to see a glowering stare or a smirk, but his face was surprisingly calm. Like when he asked what happened to his grandfather, or when she finished telling the story. Passive. </p><p>“I’m not a millionaire yet,” she murmured. </p><p>He kept staring at her. “Let’s go sit on the couch.” </p><p>She eyed her watch – forty minutes gone, now. The air between them had changed – what was previously an almost wholesome warmth had become warmer – and more charged. His eyes had darkened, his voice deepened, and her general dread and anxiety had dissipated in favor of a heat building deep in her belly.</p><p>She didn’t know how this situation had turned so – <i>friendly</i>.</p><p>What was driving Ransom to be in her space, share things with her? To be so welcoming of her in his space?</p><p>She followed him to the couch, a low, sleek, modern leather thing that was deceptively comfortable.</p><p>“I lied,” she said as she leaned back and closed her eyes. “I’ll buy this couch.”</p><p>She heard him laugh and looked over – he was sitting closer than was strictly necessary. His body was angled toward hers.</p><p>Marta hadn’t been on a ton of dates recently, but her instincts rarely failed her. This wasn’t friendly – this was – flirtatious. </p><p>And she didn’t hate the idea.</p><p>Maybe it was the stress of the day, or the wine, or her utter tiredness, or the fact that he seemed to be the only one on her side, or the fact that she missed Harlan. Harlan, who knew exactly how much of himself was in Ransom.</p><p>Maybe it was those crystalline blue eyes and the <i>largeness</i>, the way he filled the space. </p><p>Maybe it was how he kept minimizing the space between them, the way he was looking at her.</p><p>They could be allies.</p><p>And if allies involved… something else entirely, so be it.</p><p>“Ransom,” she mumbled, feeling her tiredness seep into the couch, “could I have another glass of wine please?”</p><p>“Rebel,” he murmured, and stood up. He swiped her glass from the coffee table, and she heard him pad into the kitchen and pour the wine, then pad back toward the couch.</p><p>He sat even closer this time, setting the wine on the coffee table again. She opened her eyes and sat up, grabbing the glass and taking a long drink. Wine wasn’t – and had never been – her drink, but it was taking her mind off of everything.</p><p>She murdered her friend. She devastated his family. The money couldn’t and shouldn’t be hers.</p><p>She felt Ransom’s hand on her arm. “Marta.”</p><p>She turned toward him, glass still in hand. “Yes?”</p><p>“You need to relax.”</p><p>Somehow, that’s what spurred her to explode.</p><p>“I can’t relax, Ransom. I killed my friend. I killed <i>your grandfather</i> and he left me all of his money! His house! His books! I don’t deserve this. I can’t deserve this.” She put her glass down, gesticulating wildly once her hand was free. “Whatever happens is my fault. I can’t do it.”</p><p>“Marta, you made a <i>mistake</i>. You didn’t do it on purpose. Or did you?”</p><p>She turned to him again, eyes blazing. “I loved Harlan. I never would have done that on purpose. He was good to me, to my family. How dare you!” He laughed, which only served to infuriate her more. “Are you fucking kidding? What about this is funny to you?”</p><p>“I’m not laughing <i>at</i> you. The situation is just stupid. You just need to calm down. They have nothing on you.”</p><p>“You can’t know that.” She swiped at her eyes, brimming with tears. “What if the end result of all of this is I’m in jail, my mother’s deported, my sister is homeless, and your awful family gets the money either way?”</p><p>“Well,” he murmured, leaning in closer, “then I still get my money.”</p><p>She shocked herself by slapping him. “That really is all you care about. You sick asshole.” She stared, trying to find the humanity in him, watching his cheek redden.</p><p>His eyes burned into hers. “Yes, that is all I care about.”</p><p>She stood up, looking around for how to leave. She’d let her guard down, lost her bearings, and now she was tipsy in Ransom’s house, alone with this sociopath who was making her head spin.</p><p>He grabbed her hand and pulled her back down; she fixed her eyes straight ahead of her, not looking at him. “Marta.”</p><p>He was right next to her now; he hadn’t let go of her hand. </p><p>She turned and looked at him. “What?”</p><p>“I want it to work out for you. Why else would I help the woman who – however inadvertently – killed my grandfather? Who just slapped me across the face in my own house?”</p><p>The tears were back, and she palmed uselessly at her eyes with her free hand. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>He ducked his head, and his lips were on hers.</p><p>She had known this was happening. Had she known all along? Had she known it when she jumped into his passenger seat? When he made a deal with her at the restaurant? When he offered her a glass of wine?</p><p>Had she known it when he briefly passed his hand over the small of her back last Fourth of July, as she knelt next to a tree vomiting after Mafia?</p><p>Had she known it when she watched him, bent over the Go board with Harlan in his attic study, worrying his lower lip with his teeth as he pondered a move?</p><p>Had she known when she looked at him, longer than was strictly necessary, when he fell asleep in the library and his lashes cast long shadows on his cheeks in the afternoon sun? </p><p>He was good at this, she realized, though she wasn’t surprised. One hand still held hers; the other had looped around her waist, pulling her toward him. Her free hand rested on his chest; the wide expanse she’d admired at many a pool party.</p><p>Intellectually, she knew this was a bad idea.</p><p>But he was a hot, smarter-than-she-thought man who was helping her through one of the worst days of her life.</p><p>She let herself relax into it. His hand unclasped from hers and dragged up through her hair, his nails scratching her scalp. She couldn’t stifle her moan; it had been so long since she’d been touched, been cared for.</p><p>He pulled back suddenly, looking her squarely in the eye. “Is this okay?”</p><p><i>Well</i>, she thought to herself, <i>maybe Harlan taught him how to be a gentleman. Richard certainly didn’t.</i></p><p>Like he was reading her mind, “I’m an asshole, Marta, but I’m not that kind of asshole.” His voice was like honeyed gravel, and she leaned into him again. He pulled her onto him, her legs falling on either side of his lap. His hands roamed from her head, to her sides, to her hips, sneaking under her shirt. </p><p>She pulled off her sweater and collared shirt in one go, revealing a thin camisole, and she swore she heard him growl. His lips brushed down her neck and across her collarbone. She rocked against him, grabbing his earlobe between her teeth, and he gasped.</p><p>“<i>Marta</i>,” it came out as a hiss, and she’d never heard a more blissful sound. Her hands scrabbled for his sweater, pulling it over his head, mussing his hair. She sat back on his lap to admire her handiwork – eyes sparkling, lips bruised red, chest heaving in a tight white t-shirt.</p><p>“So I guess this is okay, then,” he smirked. </p><p>“Don’t be an asshole.” And with that, her fingers scrambled under the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head.</p><p>“Fair is fair,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the divot of her collarbone. She closed her eyes and threaded her fingers through his hair, only to hear a ripping sound – her camisole. </p><p>“Ransom!” her eyes flashed dark and fiery, and he recaptured her mouth as he tossed the fabric to the floor. </p><p>Skin exposed, hands searching, she realized they were quickly approaching the point of no return.</p><p>And she didn’t care.</p><p>She pushed Ransom until he was lying on his back, his head leaning against the arm rest. She nipped his neck and heard him groan. “<i>Jesus</i>, Marta.” </p><p>She looked up at him and flashed a smile. “I didn’t know you were religious, Ransom.” And she threaded her fingers through his belt buckle, pulling it off and unbuttoning his fly with one hand.</p><p>“Holy –“ and she bent down to capture his lips again. </p><p>“Shut up,” she murmured against his lips. </p><p>His eyes, cloudy with lust, watched her as she slithered down his body, pulling his jeans down toward his ankles, leaving him in a pair of boxer briefs that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. She kissed her way back up his body, lips drifting over his abs – washboard, naturally – and he moaned. Her left hand flew up and clapped over his mouth. </p><p>She wasn’t sure why she had done that – it wasn’t like anyone could hear them out here – but his hips jerked upward.</p><p>“Marta,” he whispered into her hand, his lips brushing her palm, somewhere between a kiss and a plea, and she launched herself back up into his arms.</p><p>It was his turn to disrobe her, pulling off her bra and jeans and pressing her into the couch. “<i>Fuck</i>, you are fucking stunning.” He palmed one breast, feasting on the other with his lips and tongue, and Marta felt it throughout her whole body.</p><p>Suddenly, she felt cool air across her abdomen, and her eyes flashed open. He was standing over her, a feral look on his face.</p><p>Before she could even register what was happening, he picked her up and carried her across the room, pressing her against the window, her legs wrapped around his waist, hands seeking purchase on overheated skin.</p><p>Marta knew she could stop it if she wanted.</p><p>But she didn’t.</p><p>***</p><p>Not after he dropped to his knees and pulled off her panties.</p><p>Not after she left smeared handprints all over the windows, gasping and screaming.</p><p>Not after they fucked on every surface in the living room.</p><p>Not after they fell asleep, Marta sprawled over his chest, limbs lazily falling off the couch. </p><p>*** </p><p>She awoke sometime after midnight, a crick in her neck and a heavy feeling in her chest.</p><p>
  <i>How did I do that?</i>
</p><p>She extracted herself – thankfully, he was sleeping heavily – and crept around the room, picking up her clothes. She stuck her torn camisole in her coat pocket, letting the stiff cotton of her collared shirt against her skin remind her of the series of rash decisions that led to this moment. </p><p>She tiptoed into the kitchen to check her phone – missed calls from Blanc, her sister, and Walt.</p><p>She definitely wasn’t returning them, at this hour, from Ransom’s house.</p><p>She was tapping out a text to her sister when she heard shuffling behind her and spun around. There was Ransom – still naked – walking to the sink.</p><p>“We need to go get your car,” he rasped. He turned around and looked at her, draining a glass of water as she did so.</p><p>“Yeah.” The air was awkward and chilled, but she pushed intrusive thoughts – of his head between her thighs and his right hand looping her hair around his fist – in favor of efficiency. “I’m ready when you are.”</p><p>He winked at her – the asshole actually <i>winked</i> – “Yeah, I know.”</p><p>She rolled her eyes. “Hurry up.” And, to her surprise, he did, pulling on his jeans and sweater and jamming his feet into his shoes.</p><p>He got her car door again – shocking her for what seemed like the millionth time that evening – and put the heater on blast. “Sorry. Old car. It won’t be warm for a while.”</p><p>“It’s fine,” she muttered, suddenly reminded of everything that had led to this moment. </p><p>“You can’t puke in the car,” he said, shifting the car into gear and heading back down the driveway in the darkness.</p><p>“Funny,” she mumbled darkly.</p><p>
  <i>I can’t believe I slept with Ransom. Ransom, who called my sister a hood rat. Ransom, who didn’t vote in the last election but definitely would have voted for that guy if he had, in fact, voted. Ransom, who I’ve caught fucking a caterer in the downstairs bathroom.</i>
</p><p>They sped up Harlan’s driveway, the headlights falling on a mostly empty driveway – save Marta’s car – and a dark house. He parked next to her car, leaving it running, and she rummaged through her trunk for her jumper cables.</p><p>“If you need to drive around with jumper cables, maybe you should get a new car,” he offered as she clipped the cables from battery to battery.</p><p>“Thanks. I didn’t realize it was that simple.” Marta normally had no patience for sarcasm, least of all her from herself, but it was one in the morning and she needed a shower, a bed, and a therapist.</p><p>Maybe not in that order.</p><p>She hopped in the driver’s seat of her car and turned the key. The car sputtered to life, lights blinking and exhaust coughing. She watched Ransom undo the cables and watched him as he carried them toward her trunk, holding them as he would live snakes or a ticking bomb.</p><p>She was shocked when Ransom jumped into the passenger’s seat. “You should let it run a while, you know. Let the battery juice up.”</p><p>Her head swiveled toward him. “Yes, I know. I’ve done this before.” It was hard to keep the bite out of her words; she was tired, sad, and tense.</p><p>“Hey,” and if she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was offended. “I’m just trying to help.”</p><p>She looked at him. It was hard to take him seriously after not doing so for so long. But his face was as it had been in the diner – open, honest. Handsome.</p><p>“I know,” she sighed. “I’m sorry. I just – don’t do this often.”</p><p>“What? Commit homicide? Go on the run? Fuck a rich guy?”</p><p>She glared at him. “None of this is funny.”</p><p>“It is, kind of.” He looked away for a moment, studying the headlights of his car shining into hers, then looked back at her. “Listen. Don’t worry. I told you, it’ll all blow over.”</p><p>She sighed again. “Will it?”</p><p>“Well, me fucking you on the Eames chair won’t. I’ll remember that for a very long time.”</p><p>She couldn’t help herself – she laughed. “Yeah. I guess.”</p><p>His hand passed over the console to grab hers. “Seriously. You’re going to be fine. It’s going to be fine.”</p><p>She shook her head. “Harlan’s still dead.”</p><p>“You can’t change that. He’ll still be dead in the morning.” There was no malice, no humor in his voice – just flat factuality.</p><p>“I know.” His thumb rubbed over her knuckles, and she looked up at him, tears threatening to spill. </p><p>This time, it was deliberate; no slow dancing around the idea, no fighting, no ripping.</p><p>Just his lips on hers, her in his lap, windows fogging up, muffled cries.</p><p>“This is by far the grossest place I’ve ever had sex,” he noted after, while Marta pulled up her jeans. </p><p>“Fuck you,” she said, smoothing out her sweater. “Can you get out of my car? I want to go home.”</p><p>He grinned. “Or do you want to go again?”</p><p>“Good night, Ransom.” He swung open the passenger’s side door, unfolding his huge frame into the night.</p><p>“Good night, Marta.” And he slammed the door, any softness, care, or selflessness vanishing as quickly as he had.</p><p>She put her car into gear and drove off, rolling over the day’s events in her mind.</p><p><i>Inheriting sixty million dollars was the least interesting thing to happen to me today.</i> She saw Ransom’s headlights behind her, watched them turn the other way out of the driveway. </p><p>She still hated him, a racist shithead with no sense of responsibility.</p><p>But he was her ally. Her only ally.</p>
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